


Look To The Stars

by LordBacon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
Genre: F/M, Trigger Warning: Cancer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordBacon/pseuds/LordBacon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan's fate has been sealed from the second of her diagnosis, despite the small assurances she will live until 30. But now a devilishly handsome plot twist has appeared in the form of Killian Jones, Emma's fairytale appears to have a chance of a happy ending. The Fault In Our Stars Captain Swan AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look To The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fanfiction contains mentions of cancer, which may be upsetting to some readers. Do not read this if cancer is a trigger for you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon A Time, nor do I own The Fault In Our Stars. Anything you may recognize belongs to Adam Horowitz, Eddy Kitsis and John Green. I have basically written John Green's lines and modified them somewhat to fit the characters, but that will change as the story progresses.

In the late winter of my twenty-eighth year, my sister Mary Margaret decided I was depressed, probably because I spent most of my time locked up in my room not-reading Grimm Fairy Tales whilst listening to emo rock music and in general thinking about death.

 So Mary Margaret took me to my Regular Doctor Jiminy, who said that I was closed off from the world and living in a cave of depression, therefore I needed to go to a Support Group.

 If the cancer wasn’t making me depressed (which it wasn’t), the Support Group certainly wasn’t helping. It was every Saturday night at 8:20 in a stone-cold, claustrophobic church shaped like a crucifix. We all sat in a circle (what was this, elementary school?) where the two planks of the crucifix would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.

 I only noticed this because Sidney, the Support Group Genie (which he insisted he be called rather than ‘leader’) and the scruffiest person in the room, excitedly shout over and over again every meeting how we, as brave cancer fighters, were in the literal heart of Jesus.

 So this is how it basically went every week: the 6-9 of us walked/limped/wheeled ourselves in, downed the free lemonade and filled our pockets with the free cookies, grudgingly sat in our little Circle Of Life (oh, the irony) and tolerate Sidney dramatically recount his depressingly tragic life story – how it turned out his love life was a lie and then he had cancer in his testicles and he thought he was going to die but he didn’t and now here he is, middle-aged in a church basement in the 294th nicest town in America, divorced, friendless, doing nothing all day but reading the news and making a living out of constantly recounting his cancertastic life story and thanking God that the cancer didn’t kill him only so he could wait for the Reaper to take him in his sleep when he was old and grey and happy to be free of this thing we all call a life.

 Gee, why couldn’t I be that lucky?

 Then we would lazily introduce ourselves: name; age; diagnosis; how we’re doing today. “Swan. Emma Swan,” I’d say when it was my turn. “Twenty-eight. Originally thyroid, but with an impressive and long-settled satellite colony in my lungs. And I’m fine, it’s none of your business.”

 Once we had gotten around the circle, Sidney asked if anyone wanted to share. And then began that stupid thing where everyone talked about fighting and battling as if we were brave heroes getting rid of something bad in the world. Luckily, Sidney also let us talk about dying, too.

 The only (barely) redeeming facet of the Support Group was this middle-aged man who only introduced himself as Mr. Gold, a short, thin Scottish man with long-ish, brown-grey hair. He always wore a suit and kept a golden-headed cane by his leg.

 And his leg was the problem. The bottom half of his right leg had been amputated when he was 33, and now on some improbable chance the cancer had come back in what was left of that same leg.

 I’d never actually spoken to him, but I could tell Mr. Gold found this whole Support Group thing as ridiculous as I did; he and I communicated solely through glances, smirks and sighs. Whenever someone groaned about something like how they only survived on drugs now, he would glance at me and smirk in dark amusement, or whenever someone tearfully complained about how much their lives had begun to suck since they’d been diagnosed, he’d huff a sigh and _then_ glance at me and smirk. My response would be to roll my eyes and shrug.

 I kind of liked Mr. Gold. His bored sarcasm never failed to amuse me even when it outraged everyone else, and he was so blunt and realistic about his situation that I couldn’t help but admire him. And, unlike everyone else, he never seemed pressured to answer Sidney’s questions. Whenever the Genie was stupid enough to get too personal with him, he simply had to snap a harsh comment and that was it; like a crocodile. I wish I had the ability to tell people where to shove it in these situations.

 So, anyway, Support Group sucked, and I eventually grew from quietly-obedient-but-screaming-inside to actual kicking-and-screaming about the whole situation. In fact, it was actually on the Sunday I became acquainted with Killian Jones that I attempted to worm my way out of Support Group during a marathon of the _Back To The Future_ movies with Mary Margaret on the couch.

It wasn’t exactly an argument (my sister? Arguing? Ha!), but I was shut up when my sister uncharacteristically said in a flat, firm voice, “You’re going to Support Group.” I seriously failed to see the point, but I agreed, provided the rest of _BTTF_ was recorded. And anyway, I wanted to make my sister happy.

 When we arrived at 8:15 and my sister had insisted I “make friends” as usual, I made my way into the church. This church was so ancient they hadn’t even bothered to fit in an elevator, so I was forced to make my way down the stairs every week, dragging Bob the Ten-Pound Oxygen Tank, much to my lungs’ despair. I filled a paper cup with lemonade to cool myself down and turned around when I felt eyes burning into me.

 A man was staring at me.

 I was absolutely positive I’d never seen him before; I would never forget seeing someone like him – tall, dark and handsome with a perfectly-carved stubbly jaw and beautiful blue eyes. He was young, maybe not even 30 yet, and he sat leaned back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other like he was a king in his throne. His left hand was deep in the pocket of his leather jacket.

 He was _hot._

I approached the circle and decided to sit next to Mr. Gold, directly across from the man. I spared a quick glance at him again. He was still staring at me.

 Once everyone had arrived, Sidney began with his usual serenity prayer. After the final _Amen_ had been muttered, I began to feel my face heat up as I noticed the guy was still staring.

 I finally decided to fight fire with fire and stare back. All through Sidney’s melodramatic tale about his cancer scare, I stared without blinking. When Sidney had finished, the man smirked charmingly and glanced away for a moment. I smirked back and flicked my eyebrows. _I win._

 The man shrugged his right shoulder lazily. His attention turned back to Sidney; it was introduction time. “Mr. Gold,” Sidney cautiously asked, “Perhaps you’d like to start us off this week? I’ve heard you’re going through a rough time.”

 “You probably heard so in that rag of a paper you read,” Mr. Gold muttered as he slowly rose with a struggle, and the hot guy snickered. “My name is Mr. Gold. My first name and age is none of your business. It would seem fate has a sense of humor and has decided to put cancer back into what is left of my sorry excuse of a leg. I will have to go into surgery to have the rest of it removed next week, after which I will have to completely rely on my cane to move at all. I am, however, lucky enough to have a beautiful wife support me. And, on rare occasions, ever-so-helpful men such as Mr. Jones.” He gave a short, sharp nod to the hot guy, who now had a last name. He looked down to stare at his hands, which were folded on top of his cane. “It’s not like I have any magic and can just fix myself or anything,”

 “We’re here for you, Mr. Gold.” Sidney quietly said. He raised his hands quickly to encourage us, and we all said in a monotonous tone, “We’re here for you, Mr. Gold.” Mr. Gold snorted and sat back down.

 There were five others before it was _his_ turn. He smirked again and leapt out of his seat. His voice was husky, low and with a sexy Irish tinge. “Killian Jones is the name.” he said. “I’m twenty-eight years old, going on to be twenty-nine. I had a little bit of osteosarcoma a couple of years ago, but it’s all alright, now.” He finally produced his left hand out of his pocket and I saw why he had been keeping it there in the first place; he didn’t _have_ a hand. “I’m really just here so the old crocodile wouldn’t get lonely.” He gestured to Mr. Gold, who huffed and rolled his eyes.

“But how are you feeling, Killian?” Sidney asked.

 “Ah, I’m mighty grand, my friend.” Killian Jones grinned with half of his mouth. “I’m sailing on a sea with no waves.”


End file.
